


Une histoire d’amour

by onotherflights



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 1917, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, M/M, New Orleans, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-03 22:28:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12156087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onotherflights/pseuds/onotherflights
Summary: “Then what are you here for?”The response is just as quick, keeping up with Yuri’s defenses.“What does anyone who comes here pay for?”{ In 1917 New Orleans, Storyville is known as the infamous red light district, where prostitution is legal and regulated.  Yuri Plisetsky has grown up in madame Lilia's house and after four years of work, he thinks all men are the same. That is, until a certain free spirit with a foreign name strolls into the crescent city. }





	Une histoire d’amour

**Author's Note:**

> Back at it again with another historical AU! I've been writing this for a long while and i'm so pleased with it. Being from the NOLA area, i thought this was so fun to write and it meant a lot to me. This is also to celebrate reaching 500 followers over on tumblr! Thank you so much to everyone who supports me in any way, your words of encouragement keep me writing and keep me sane even when real life is a bit of a drag.
> 
>  
> 
> Enough rambling, thank you all so much, and I hope you enjoy!

_ 1 9 1 7 _

_ Storyville, New Orleans _

Yuri liked it best when they didn't look at him.

They would bury their shameful faces in the curve of his neck, breathing in his perfume, trying to pretend. Yuri was fine with it, because it allowed him to drop the act. He didn't have to fake his face, he could just stare up at the ceiling with dead eyes, waiting for it to be over. They would groan, sweat, take him however they liked. Sometimes they didn't want to even see him, so he’d be face down in the pillows. Sometimes he held his breath and hoped, but it never worked. He would sputter and choke and gasp in lungfuls of air, then sink back into the mattress with quiet disappointment, listening to the man behind him grunting in pleasure.

When he was a little boy, he used to watch his mother brush her hair whenever she was getting ready for a John to come and visit her. She had regulars, men who came around the same time each week. They always stayed the night, so she only had to work once or twice a day. Yuri would sit cross-legged on her bed and watch for what felt like hours, the way she would brush her long hair back and slather rogue onto her cheeks. The men would bring her gifts sometimes, and Yuri could always tell who was coming by what jewlry his mother would put on. The only thing she never wore were the emerald earrings that Yuri’s father had given to her, right before he died.

Yuri had them now, hidden under a floorboard in his bedroom. He didn't think Lilia would take them if she ever did find them, but he could never be sure.

He remembered how mad Lilia was when his mother left, because of how much money it meant she was losing. Yuri was fourteen. He had known, because the men stopped spending the night so often. His mother was thinner than she had ever been, Yuri was almost frightened to hold her when he slept next to her, trying to keep her warm. It wasn't enough. She left on a beautiful spring day, and Yuri watched through the window as she carried her small bag up the driveway towards a Taxi waiting, sputtering smog. Yuri looked away when she closed the door, the emerald earrings she held onto catching light between his fingertips and glittering in the sun.

The next morning, when he went downstairs to start his usual chores, Lilia told him to sit at the kitchen table. She made him a cup of tea, sitting across from him.

“You've always been so pretty for a boy, Yura.” She smiled gently, brushing his scrappy hair behind his ear.

He wasn't groomed into it as much as he was given a choice.

He chose what he had always known.

 

*

 

Four years later, he was watching a regular buckle his pants up, the afternoon sun casting shadows into his room. It glistened off of the silver badge that he fastened to the pocket of his shirt, and he looked back at Yuri with a glint of a smile.

They didn't speak to each other, but he came over to Yuri and kissed his forehead before turning his back, closing the door softly behind him when he left.

Yuri sighed tiredly and stood up, sliding his red silk robe over his bare skin. He straightened his knee socks and went over to the window, watching the cars pass on the road.

Mila knocked and entered quietly a minute later, pushing her cart. She had a basin of warm water and a towel, and a cup of tea. Yuri washed himself silently as Mila busied herself making the bed with fresh sheets. She waited until he’d put on new underwear and tied his robe back, sitting on the window seat and cooling his tea, to make any announcements.

“You have a night stay coming in.” She said gently, sitting across from him. Yuri grimaced, but took a sip of his tea nonetheless.

“Don't worry, I’ve had him a couple of times. He's nice.”

Frowning, Yuri walked over to his vanity, sitting at the chair. “If he's so nice, why can't he stay with you, so that I can get some sleep?”

Mila laughed, the beautiful and easy sound of it filling the room. “I suppose you could say I lack a certain charm.”

Yuri rolled his eyes, pressing a white puff of cotton into his collarbones, rose-scented powder absorbing into his skin. Yuri sometimes wondered how many wives knew their husbands spent the night in his bed because of a certain charm.

Mila kissed both his cheeks and took his teacup on her way out, pushing her cart in front of her.

Yuri looked in the mirror, examining his features. He was tired, in more than just the physical sense. He wondered if his mother ever got used to it, or if she had an innate tiredness inside of her. If she did, he had never seen it on her face. His mother had always been so perfect to him. He tried to remember exactly how she looked, but he didn't have a photograph of her, and as the years passed it became harder and harder to remember the exact hue of her eyes.

 

*

 

The John announced his arrival with a knock, entering the room quietly. Yuri didn't look up from his vanity, lost in his thoughts.

When he heard the door close he startled, eyes darting from his own reflection to look at who had entered his room.

“I'm sorry,” the John said, low voice even and steady. He wasn't nervous like Yuri expected men to be the first time they entered his room. “Continue what you were doing, I will wait.”

Suspicious eyes narrowing, Yuri watched as he crossed the room and sat down across from him on the window seat, leaning back casually against the pillows there. Yuri was still just sitting and staring at him, so he made a “go on” gesture with his hands, an easy smile resting on his face.

Hesitantly, Yuri turned his back and picked up his hairbrush. He began brushing down the back of his hair, carefully combing through the tangles. Through the reflection, he was able to examine the John, trying to solve the puzzle that had entered his room. He had never before encountered someone like this man.

For one, he wasn't dressed like the typical customer. He didn't wear a fine suit, just simple tweed pants and a loose white shirt, suspenders framing his chest. He sat back with ease, his newsboy cap tilted atop his head.

He was watching Yuri too, looking at the red silk kimono that he was wearing. His eyes went over all the details stitched into the fabric, every colorful bird and flower.

“Where did you get the robe?” He questioned.

Yuri knit his eyebrows, one hand sectioning parts of his long hair, the other brushing it slowly. “A client from Japan was fond of me.”

The stranger just nodded casually, looking around the room. Yuri was still looking at him, trying to figure it out. He wasn't the well-heeled businessmen that usually frequented the house. He was dressed like a common boy, wearing the clothing Yuri wore whenever he was allowed to go into town. Yuri has always thought caps like that were cool. He was young, no older than twenty-two, surely. He wasn't local either, if the subtle shape of his eyes and the accent he tried to cover said anything.

Every moment that went by where this young man sat patiently, like he was waiting for something that would only disappoint him, Yuri filled with anger. The whole thing was so strange, it had been five minutes and he wasn't on his back. There had to be some ulterior motive that he wasn't aware of. Yuri knew better than to yell or lash out in anger at a client, as that was a sure fire way to get a beating, but he lost his patience when the stranger’s brown eyes met his again in the mirror, and the corners of his lips turned up in an innocent smile.

“What's with you?” Yuri demanded, slamming his brush down on the table and turning in his chair to face the John. “Are you a cop or something?”

Since the start of the war, there were rumors that the District was in trouble, and the city police had begun to bribe the landladies more often than they used to. It didn't bother Yuri that much, there were always rumors that some group or another was trying to shut everything down, and this time it was the navy. Lilia had owned her house for nearly twenty years with the city police being regulars themselves, Yuri figured if anything the cheap cribs would go first, not their house. It wasn't like it was the finest brothel in the District; it was no Mahogany Hall, but it was the only home Yuri had ever known. He wasn't going to let some new undercover do-good policeman come into his room and arrest him for indecency, at least not without a completely decent fight.

The John laughed in genuine surprise, shaking his head. “Of course not, I would rather die.”

“Then what are you here for?”

The response is just as quick, keeping up with Yuri’s defenses.

“What does anyone who comes here pay for?”

That silences Yuri. He rises in defeat, taking careful steps towards the window. He sits down on the stranger’s lap and looks up into unreadable brown eyes. It's infuriating to Yuri, being unable to read what this man’s intentions are. It's usually so obvious when they stumble into his room with whiskey on their breath and sweat on their brow when they push him onto the bed. This man is sitting nonchalantly, unashamed, his hands resting at his sides. He doesn't stir when Yuri sits on his lap, or when he begins to subtly move his hips. He doesn't react when Yuri surges forward in determination and kisses him, a demanding press against his lips.

He's warm, a softer touch than Yuri had grown accustomed to, but he doesn't move. Yuri is all at once insulted and newly enraged.

“Why aren't you kissing me back?” Yuri whined, planting soft kisses along his strong jawline.

“I was hoping to learn your name first.” The man answered simply.

Yuri stopped his insistent kissing and the sway of his hips and leaned back to look at him once more, expression ever laced in confusion.

When the blue books were still in rotation, Yuri had been listed under his mother’s name. Mila had shown a copy of it to him one day, a giggle of excitement because her picture was featured. Yuri’s was not, naturally, but according to Mila (who could read semi-well), his description included the line “call on her if interested in unique experience”. Yuri had laughed at that like it was the funniest thing in the world. Even when men called upon Lilia with further inquiry, she gave them a false name, a neutral and American name that blurred where his heritage lines fell.

“Lilia told you when you paid.” He replied. The young man shook his head, not accepting the deflection.

“Not that name. Your real name. What name did your mother give to you?”

The mention of his mother struck something inside of Yuri. He tried his best not to think of what had become of her, where she was if she was anywhere at all. He didn't blame his mother for leaving, he blamed her for not wanting him to go with her. He might not be alive if he had gone with her though, there was no way of knowing.

He gave his name quietly, as if by omission it said too much about him.

“Yuri Plisetsky.” The stranger repeated, pronouncing it slowly as if he adored the taste of it.

“You should tell me your name.” It wasn’t something Yuri usually requested, but something about this man felt different. Almost as if he wanted to know who Yuri was before taking him to bed. How odd. How difficult it would be, as well, considering Yuri wasn’t so sure who he was most days.

The strange man’s lip turned up at the corner. “I'm afraid it will give me away as well.”

“You're not a filthy yankee are you?”

The expression didn’t leave, but only bloomed further. He gave Yuri his name.

Otabek Altin.

Yuri didn’t repeat it, but turned it over in his mind. He was definitely a yankee. Yuri was yet to discover if he was filthy. He leaned in again, determined to regain his lost pride and seduce this man. It was what he was to be paid for, after all.

Otabek stopped him, a gentle but unyielding hand framing his cheek.  

“I'm going to kiss you now, better than any man had ever kissed you. And then I'm going to carry you over to that bed and lay you down, and make love to you. Do you consent to that?”

Yuri looked at him, filtered through golden hair that had been brushed black and curved up. What was consent in his world? His consent was taken away when men handed over their money to Lilia, who stuffed it into her purse. Yuri only saw the money he made when he absolutely needed it. So the only way the access the money was to take clients. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't how any of the girls were treated. Yuri was a special interest, so he received a type of special treatment.

So to be asked something like that was all at once shocking and perplexing. All he knew was, this man had already treated him with more respect than any other had before, and he wanted to please him. Need to and want to were quite different things, but Yuri definitely wanted Otabek.

“Yes,” he exhaled, his heart running faster in his chest. He was anticipating the best kiss of his life, after all. “I consent to it fully.”

Yuri closed his eyes, silently said a prayer the kindness would endure, and waited.

It was certainly the most gentle kiss of his life. Soft, polite, the way all first greetings were. Then slowly, it began to deepen and develop like a photograph. Yuri gasped and stiffened when he felt Otabek’s hand moving from his neck slowly down his chest, exploring his skin through the filter of lace. Otabek was so gentle with him, careful in a way no one had ever been with him before. It wasn't as though Yuri needed careful handling, but it was nice to be eased into things all the same.

His hands kept wandering, pausing to brush against certain places like the inner crease of Yuri’s elbow or the space between his ribs and his stomach. Kisses and touches seemed to bleed into each other until Yuri found his own hands were moving to touch the unfamiliar man without any preconditions. He had his own mapping to do.

It felt just fine to be treated so gently, but it felt even more fine to be gently extracted from how they were entangled on the window seat and lifted up, set down on the bed rather than pushed. He fully expected that Otabek would join him immediately, that those soft lips would be on his again, but he was left waiting. He had never waited for a man in his life.

Otabek took his time undressing, standing at the foot of his bed. His eyes never left Yuri, who was resting up on his elbows, his robe loose and hanging off his bare shoulders. Rather than silent torture, Otabek took the moment to ask him questions.

_Do you have any interests?_

_Have you always been in New Orleans?_

_Are you happy?_

The first question was asked as Otabek removed his cap, loose dark hair revealed from where it had been peeking out. He began to unbutton his shirt, so Yuri mirrored his movements and untied the tone that was already falling from his frame.

“Music,” Yuri answered immediately. He clarified, “I like to dance to the piano music the professor plays downstairs.”

It was true, and he was listening to the faint sound of the cheerful piano tune now. Sometimes when alone he pressed his ear to the floor, and he was able to hear it all, every note floating up to him. He would dance around his room, clients absent or snoring lazily in his bed. Sometimes, dancing was the only thing that got him through the day.

The second question was easy enough; and as Otabek unclipped his suspenders and remove his trousers, Yuri rolled his stockings down his long legs. Their clothes were beginning to mingle in a pile on the old wood floor.

“As long as I can remember,” he answered. It was that there was a time before him, a time for his mother. All he knew was that he had been born here, in this house. He had never strayed.

The last question, posed as the last of their clothes was shed, seemed unfairly intimate. Yuri didn't know how to answer it truthfully.

Instead, he went for coy as Otabek kneeled onto the bed, slinking up towards where he lay.

“We shall see in time, won't we?”

 

In the short time that Otabek Altin has entered his bedroom, he had proved to be a man of his word. He kissed Yuri like no one else had, and when he said he would make love to Yuri, there was an expectation that it would be pleasing in some way. It was what he had paid for, after all.

Otabek exceeded expectations.

Yuri was used to crying out. He was accustomed to biting his lip and hiding his face. When he was younger he was used to silent tears staining his pale cheeks, and now he was used to tears unshed.

What he was not used to was soft gasps of surprise, of pleasure. He was not used to his hands pulling in closer, holding on. He was not used to time seeming to drip slow as honey, rather than counting the moments until it was over.

If fact, the ending was the most surprising part. Being so unaccustomed, he was not expecting it when it happened. It wasn't the first time it had ever occurred, but it came as a shock all the same.

When he was finished, Otabek was still moving in him, and Yuri looked up at him with sleepy, heavy eyes. Otabek seemed almost prideful that he had caused such a reaction, a second of a smirk on display before Yuri closed his eyes and accepted another full kiss. He found himself wrapping his legs around Otabek’s hips, keeping him there, keeping him close. It was a strange sensation for Yuri, to silently pray for the kindness, among other things, to endure.

Even still, it passed too quickly.

Afterwards, they lay beside each other, neither talking. Otabek's fingers still trailed over his skin, memorizing its color and its soft dips.

“Did you get what you paid for?” Yuri finally broke the silence after a few minutes, his tone bittersweet. Their time together has been slow and warm, and he dreaded the thought that it was the most enjoyable time he'd ever had while working in the house.

For all of the things Yuri has already told Otabek, it seemed he knew almost nothing about the kind John.

Otabek pulled him closer by his waist, and his lips met the shell of Yuri’s ear.

“I believe I paid for all night, I'm only getting started with you.”

 

*

 

It was past midnight, and they were talking about Paris and passing a cigarette between them.

“They say it is one of the most romantic cities in the world,” Yuri murmured, taking the cigarette between his lips. He was leaning back on Otabek’s chest, his legs tangled in the sheets.  

From what they'd been talking about, it was clear that Otabek never stayed in any one place very long. He'd been all over Europe, all across America, and his home was a land Yuri had never heard of. Yuri had heard of Paris, though. He wanted to know everything about it, picture Otabek there with his cap sitting at a cafe. Feverishly, in the afterglow, he pictured himself, wearing a new shirt and tailored pants and his mother's emerald earrings, sitting at the same table with Otabek.

“It may be very romantic,” he mused slowly, his fingers tangled in Yuri’s golden hair. “But it also smells terrible.”

Yuri exhaled smoke, his laughter filling the air along with the gray haze.

The cigarette was finished between the two of them, and then put out. There was no light in the room but what the moon made.

They were quiet under the blankets, no effort made to continue their activities into the morning. Yuri felt his eyelids grow heavier with every hazy minute.

There was so much he wanted to say, but their time was almost over. He wanted to say thank you, for being so gentle, for being a decent man. Yuri wasn't used to seeing many. He didn't want to think about the idea that maybe he wouldn't be seeing Otabek again soon, if ever.

“Otabek, say you'll take me sometime,” he murmured, just as he allowed his eyes to close. “To Paris.”

In his quiet way, Otabek didn't respond. He just stroked Yuri’s hair and kissed his head until he fell asleep.

At the end of every night, Yuri always had his dreams even if he had nothing else.

 

*

 

In the morning, he kept his eyes closed when Otabek was getting dressed to leave. He pretended to be asleep as he listened to Otabek rustling around the room. He kept his eyes shut and stayed still even when the other man rounded the bed, leaning down to plant a kiss on his sun-warm cheek.

Yuri waited until the door was closed and the sound of Otabek's footsteps traveled down the hall to curl into himself. He didn't cry, but he felt hollow in a way he had never known.

Eventually, he pulled himself out of bed and found his robe on the floor, walking over to his mirror to comb his hair. He yawned, tired eyes blinking open in the persistent morning sun.

Then, he saw it.

It was a simple note resting next to his rose powder, a few lines written on a scrap of paper.

Yuri didn't know how to read.

He raced out of his room and down the hall to Mila’s room, carefully peering into the room. Blessedly, she was alone. Yuri opened the screen door and quietly went in, passing a few beds with varying numbers of occupants until he got to Mila’s, sitting next to her and shaking her bare shoulder.

She woke mumbling French curses, sitting up in her bed wearing nothing but a string of pearls that was tangled into gentle waves of her hair.

“Mila, just read this to me,” Yuri begged, thrusting the scrap of paper at her.

She took it between her thin fingers, rubbing at her eyes and then carefully examining the note. Slowly, she began to smile.

“What does it say?” He leaned close to look again at the neat script, as if the letters would rearrange themselves in a way Yuri could understand. “and don't lie to me.”

“God above, Yuri, what did you do to this poor man?” Mila laughed airily, biting at her bottom lip like she was reading a gossip article.

“Just read it, you old whore.”

That made Mila laugh more, and she moved so that Yuri had space to sit beside her and watch as her finger glided slowly over each word.

_Yuri,_

_Last night was the first night of my life. I have known many lands and many people, but I have only known one with eyes that mirror the color of the sun hiding behind a wave._

_I will return to you soon._

_All of my affections,_

_Otabek Altin._

 

*

 

Mila pried him for information with each passing day, but Yuri said nothing. He treasured the note, keeping it hidden under the floorboard with his mother's earrings. Sometimes he would trace his fingers over the letters, reciting in his head the words they represented.

Despite the initial excitement over the note, Mila didn't make mention of it again when she visited Yuri’s rooms to change the bedding or bring him cups of tea. Not even when it had been a month, and the note was crinkled from being folded over held in Yuri’s palm whenever he slept alone.

Yuri went on with life, but the thought of the man who had been kind to him never left his mind. It made things easier, in a way. Whenever rough, calloused hands gripped his body too tightly, he remembered Otabek. Whenever he began to feel like he wanted to escape, he imagined Paris for the two of them.

Whenever another man took Yuri’s body and used it for himself, Yuri remembered the way Otabek touched him like he was a being to be worshipped.

When it was slow, Yuri was able to leave his room in his simple clothes. He sat downstairs to listen to the professor playing his piano and singing while he looked out of the window at the bustling street. He watched life go by, all of the people that passed through New Orleans on their way to somewhere better or more important.

He remembered the question Otabek had asked him, that he hadn't really been able to answer.

_Are you happy?_

He was still waiting for the time when he could say he was and not be lying.

 

*

 

Otabek Altin was a man of his word.

There was no grand entrance, just a simple turn of the door. Yuri hadn't been expecting anyone, so he looked up from the window where he had been napping, slightly annoyed to be disturbed.

Then he saw the familiar cap and the distinct features that had filled his dreams for the past few phases of the moon, and his face softened.

He stood at once, in only his night shirt and knee-length stockings, and crossed the room. They met in the middle of the floor, and became a tangle of limbs and kisses. Yuri jumped up, wrapping himself around Otabek’s hips. They fell onto the bed with heavy breath, and Yuri straddled his hips. He took the newsboy cap in his hand, tossing it across the room. The rest of their clothes were soon to join the collection.

There was no need for words in order to become reacquainted with one another.

 

He no longer had to wait for Otabek to visit. He would come every week, Lilia greeting him at the front door without the smile she normally used on every client. He didn’t have drinks, he didn’t listen to the music. He didn’t talk to any of the women, not even Mila. He always went straight upstairs to find Yuri, and not a moment was wasted.

Sometimes, he brought presents. Once morning it was pomegranates fat with seeds, the two of them eating them in Yuri’s bed with their legs intertwined as they traded stories. The next week it was new wool socks, and the week after that it was a set of photographs from his home. Yuri treasured everything he was given, and eventually he had to pull up a new floorboard.

One afternoon, after being wrapped up in each other all morning long, Otabek began to stroke his hair and shift restlessly.

Yuri looked up at him with narrowed eyes. Otabek was only restless when he had something on his mind, that much Yuri had learned.

“What is it?”

Otabek never asked how many clients Yuri saw, or how they treated him. He didn’t ask whether Yuri liked working or not. He knew better, and he knew better than to get jealous. He would be such a hypocrite to say he was jealous. It was enough to know what they had was something different, at least they both hoped.

“Are you happy?” He finally said. His eyes looked a bit sad, almost distance. Maybe he was just tired, though.

Slowly, Yuri smiled just for him, a prelude to the way he would kiss him. This time, he had an honest answer.

“When i’m with you, I am.”

 

*

 

It took a few love letters for Otabek to learn.

He would catch Yuri studying them on the floor, the tin box he stored them in open and and resting beside him. He observed, and then he realized. He felt awful for not knowing sooner.

Instead of writing to him, he made an effort to tell him, even if he avoided saying it in English or French.

One night, his body covering Yuri’s like the shadow of the moon, he let his slip from his lips.

Yuri looked up at him with half-closed eyes, his fingers intertwined in night-black hair. For a moment, it was like he hadn’t heard, just the soft sounds of their breathing and the way they were moving together, the way they were connected. Downstairs, the professor played a mourning song.

“I understand what you’re saying, you know,” He murmured, keeping Otabek hooked on the waves in his eyes. He moved his arms to wrap around him, pull him in tighter, closer. When they were like that, Yuri liked to imagine that there was something invisible connecting them, something that lived within them, so that in the morning when Otabek inevitably left, they would still feel each other.

He closed his eyes and let his forehead rest for a moment against Otabek’s as their movements slowed.

“‘ _I love you’_ sounds the same in every language if someone really means it.”

 

The next week, Yuri’s gift was a book. He looked skeptical, holding the tome in his hands as Otabek passed by him and perched on the window seat.

“You know I can’t read at all, right?” he smirked, crawling up beside him and sitting between his legs.

The answer seemed simple enough. “So i’ll teach you.”

Yuri tucked his hair behind his ears. He rather liked it when they spent less time talking, but in the same way he really wanted to read Otabek’s letters. He had stopped asking Mila, figuring after the first one the embarrassing metaphors only grew worse. He didn’t trust any of the others to read them, anyway.

“Word by word?”

“Letter by letter,” Otabek promised.

Otabek Altin was a man of his word.

 

*

 

He started with children’s books, but soon enough Yuri was able to understand Otabek’s letters, and then he wanted to practice on more. He read the blue book. He read the love letters Mila’s johns sent to her.

One day, he inevitably found Lilia’s letters.

He had known for a long time that the district was in trouble. Only now, with the navy rolling into town and the war soldiering on, he knew it was real.

It made it harder to take clients. Work was slow, they even had to fire their bar man. Next, pieces of furniture were sold off. When the first girl left, who had been working as long as Yuri had, he knew it was ending.

He tried not to think of it, but he found the thought wandering into his mind while he was with a client and he had nothing else to think of. Even the way this man fucked him seemed tired and sour, like he was a fruit that was spoiling. Maybe it was true, the district was past season.

It didn’t change anything with Otabek.

“How do you get the money to pay for this, anyway?” Yuri asked once.

Otabek didn’t pause what he was doing, looking up at Yuri with wide eyes. The blonde was laid back, reclining on the pillows and watching Otabek lazily.

Eventually, Otabek let his hand replace his mouth so that he could answer.

“My father funds all of my adventures,” He explained casually. There was a smirk playing on his lips. “I told him New Orleans had a lot to offer to me.”

Yuri didn't ask another thing until they were done, lying satiated and boneless in their bed. Maybe other men would rent time and space in that bed, but they didn't belong there the way that Otabek did.

“Have you told him about me?” Yuri wondered aloud, his voice soft and careful. 

“Yes,”

“Did you tell him I'm a whore?”

Otabek frowned, and pulled Yuri closer. “I told him I found someone in New Orleans with a strength in his eyes that I've never known. It was easy enough for him to guess that I fell in love.”

Yuri smiled softly, drawing patterns on Otabek's warm skin.

“And by what name did you call this person?”

Surely Otabek hadn't said he'd fallen in love with another man. A whore and a man? His father would hate Yuri.

“Your name,” Otabek answered simply. At the sight of Yuri’s uneasiness, he kissed his forehead and stroked his hair, comforting him.

“My father once said that love is the only thing in this world that is worth anything. Worth fighting all the wars, worth telling in every story. He understood, Yuri.”

Their conversation went elsewhere, but that night Yuri dreamed of Otabek's family, warm and loving and adventurous, always traveling together or sending their children off to see the world.

His mother was the only family Yuri had ever known. After she left, the women of the house were like a sort of family, but none of them were very loving or warm, not like Otabek's family. Still, it was the only family he had.

And he knew it was dying.

 

*

 

Yuri didn't cry until the professor left and they sold the piano. Without music, the house was dead silent and haunting. None of the regulars came around, even the sheriff stopped showing up for his favorite girls.

Otabek held him when he cried, ever the comforting sun to his rising tide.

Otabek's last gift came in the form of a suitcase at midnight.

“You don't have to stay here anymore, it's only going to get worse. Where will you go when they close the house?” He explained, as he packed Yuri's clothes away.

Yuri was sitting on the floor, boards pried open and his treasures, all the gifts from Otabek, before him.

“It's the only life I've ever known,” he said sadly, gathering all the letters he'd been saving. “If I leave, what will happen to all the girls? Where will Mila go?”

“She will persist regardless of your presence, love.”

He knew Otabek was right and it was time to go, but that didn't make leaving any easier. He wondered if his mother had felt that way.

Yuri stood and silently, they packed. When they were done, Otabek held Yuri's face between his hands and kissed him, even as tears welled in Yuri's eyes.

“Where will we go?”

“Anywhere you want, as long as it's not here.”

The tears broke, falling down Yuri's face, and he smiled. “Say you'll take me to Paris.”

Otabek slid his coat over Yuri’s shoulders and took his favorite cap from his head, and put it on Yuri’s.

“As you wish.”

Downstairs, Mila was waiting by the front door. Yuri crept carefully down the stairs, and rushed into her arms. He wanted to remember everything about her, the way she smelled and the way her hair was always a mess.

“Hey, don't worry about me, I'll make it.”

“I know you will, old hag,” he laughed, the tears thick in his eyes.

Just as they thought it was over and Yuri would take Otabek's hand and run through the door, Lilia appeared in the hallway. As she approached, all three of them were completely still.

She had a neutral, unreadable face yet somehow she always looked disappointed. That much hadn't changed.

Ignoring Mila and Otabek, she bore holes only into Yuri. On his own, he stood taller than her, and held up his chin. There was nothing she could say that would stop him from leaving now that he had put his mind to it, now that he could be with Otabek.

Without a word, she drew an envelope from the pocket of her robe. With a shaking hand, she extended it to Yuri, her face never changing.

It was money, Otabek's money. It was enough to keep the house open for a few more months, until all the girls had left. It was also enough to get them to Paris, and more so.

She was giving it all to Yuri.

With fresh tears, he pulled her into a tight embrace, and it was the least that both of them could do. Somehow, after all the years Yuri had spent feeling locked away, it was enough. She had always protected and looked after him, in the only way she knew how.

He let go of her, took one last look at their faces and the withering light of the house, and then turned to the door. With one hand in Otabek's and the other on the door handle, he let it open.

Finally, he was leaving.

They had to run to catch the last streetcar, and Otabek jumped on first with the suitcase in his hand. The other one, he held out to Yuri.

“Are you coming with me or not?”

Smiling, Yuri jumped on the train and into Otabek's arms.

Beside them, an old man smoked his pipe, looking at the quiet street with a sad look, like he had once been familiar with it. Maybe he knew it was dying too.

“Unsavory part of town you boys are coming from,” he remarked and Otabek and Yuri sat down with plastered smiles on their faces.

As the car pulled away, the old man was still looking at the line of houses, maybe imagining how they had once flowed with warm red light, beacons in the night calling in all who were lonely.

Yuri was only looking at Otabek.

“May we never return.”

Otabek kissed him, right there on the old streetcar. He reached for Yuri’s hand, pressing something into his palm. When they parted and Yuri looked down, the sight almost took his breath away.

His mother’s emerald earrings shone bright, the moonlight hitting them.

Yuri didn’t know where she had gone, and if she was happy. He didn’t know what would happen to the only family he had ever known, or the family he would find if he held tight enough to Otabek’s hand.

All he knew was, he was free.

And finally, he was truly happy.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this please check out [the moodboard ](http://onotherflights.tumblr.com/post/165602034217/une-histoire-damour-fanfic-by-onotherflights-6)over on tumblr! ♡


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